


Another Love, or the Same Love

by goldfishoflove



Category: Hockey Boys - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Demisexuality, Hockey, M/M, Mutual Pining, National Hockey League, Pining, Underage Drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 10:01:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17764661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldfishoflove/pseuds/goldfishoflove
Summary: “Must be family, eh?” Timmo guesses.“Yep.” Nick grins. “My youngest sister got into Juilliard. The opera program.”“Damn! That explains the high note,” Timmo laughs. “So she’s moving to New York?”The cab turns a corner and Nick looks out at the crumbling sidewalk glowing under neon, listens to the background wail of sirens and horns. He pictures Isabelle opening the acceptance letter back home on the farm in Minnesota and wonders how their parents reacted.“Yeah,” he says. “I think so. I hope so.”





	Another Love, or the Same Love

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [One May Hide Another](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12190311) by [Oko (tucuxi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tucuxi/pseuds/Oko). 



> Oko's One May Hide Another is about Kolya moving to New York and falling in love with Nick. This is my interpretation of Nick's side of that story, starting at about the halfway point and continuing just a hair past the end. This fic assumes no knowledge of OMHA and structurally stands alone, but if you read this first and are wondering what Kolya's problem is, read the original. (Just read it anyway, it's great.)

Nicholas Jordan Larsson is drafted to the NHL in 2006 and signed to the New York Rangers.

In early 2012, he gets a phone call in the back of a Manhattan taxi.

“NICK I GOT IN!”

Nick’s mind is buzzing with victory adrenaline, and it takes a moment to put together the context. “Holy shit Iz!” His face lights up. “I’m so proud of you!”

He has to hold the phone away from his ear as Isabelle squeals. In the seat next to him, his teammate Timmo raises an eyebrow.

“Listen, Izzy, I can’t talk right now, but I’ll call you first thing tomorrow, okay?”

“Oh yeah, you’re probably out celebrating, huh? Great job tonight, tell Marc he’s my favorite.”

“Hey!” Nick can’t really be that offended. With the playoffs in sight, a win over the second-place Bruins is huge, and their goalie’s big save against what would have been a game-tying breakaway is making every highlight reel.

“Whatever.” Isabelle’s too buoyant to push the teasing. “Skype me when you shake off the hangover, okay?”

Nick laughs and agrees before hanging up.

“Must be family, eh?” Timmo guesses.

“Yep.” Nick grins. “My youngest sister got into Juilliard. The opera program.”

“Damn! That explains the high note,” Timmo laughs. “So she’s moving to New York?”

The cab turns a corner and Nick looks out at the crumbling sidewalk glowing under neon, listens to the background wail of sirens and horns. He pictures Isabelle opening the acceptance letter back home on the farm in Minnesota and wonders how their parents reacted.

“Yeah,” he says. “I think so. I hope so.”

But there’s no point in worrying about it now, as they climb out of the cab and bump fists with the bouncer on their way into the bar.

Most of the team is already there, packed around a couple of booths. The rookies are hiding in the back--all of the new guys this year are legal to drink in their home countries, but here in the States they have to sneak shots from older guys. Even Nick thinks it’s silly at this point, but he remembers doing the same his first year in New York. It’s weird to think about now, back when it was him and--

He spots Kolya having an animated argument with Marc by the back wall. That’s different, too; six years in New York and seemingly constant reading and writing have turned their first-line center from a silent observer to a fluid English conversationalist, which as a hockey player he needs primarily for giving good interviews and chirping. Nick takes a moment to enjoy the spark of amusement in Kolya’s eyes, the curl at the corner of his mouth, before Marc notices him and waves him over.

Nick grabs a shot from a tray on one of the team’s tables before joining them.

“Would have brought you one,” he nods to Kolya, “but I remembered you hate this stuff.”

“Big Lars is buying the rookies flavored vodka again?” A lot may have changed, but Russian-born Kolya will always be a snob about vodka. He makes a face. “I be right back.”

Nick sighs as Kolya walks away towards the bar. He throws back the shot, and Marc clucks his tongue and shakes his head.

“No sulking tonight,” he says, “only celebrating.”

Easy for you to say, Nick thinks, but he forces a smile and follows Marc back to the group.

Three drinks later, he’s settled into his normal routine: sticking to the back, buying a round when his turn comes up, and bullshitting with whoever’s between tries chatting up women at the bar. It makes for some disjointed conversation, but he knows by now how drunk he needs to stay for it not to bother him, to not feel like he’s missing something important. At least, until Kolya goes up for a fresh tray of shots and a young woman immediately drapes herself against him. She seems barely older than the rookies, and when Kolya glances down appraisingly Nick tortures himself a little wondering what it is he’s looking for. It's so alien to him, the idea of sizing someone up at a glance and immediately trusting them with intimacy. Even desiring someone you haven't spoken to before feels bizarre. But after a decade in hockey locker rooms, Nick knows it's him who's the alien. He's just grateful his current teammates have gotten bored of nosy questions.

Whatever he wanted, Kolya seems to find it. He slips an arm around the girl’s waist, and Nick looks away. That’s enough self-torture for tonight. Nick leans over to Marc, who’s gleefully teaching the new winger from Sweden some vital Quebecois slang that Nick would put 50/50 odds on being made up on the spot.

“I’m heading home,” he shouts over the music and the crowd. “You in tonight?”

Marc shakes his head. “Told Holly I’d go over after, I’ll see you at practice.”

Nick nods and says a couple of goodbyes before slipping out onto the street.

When he was still settling into city life, his first year or two in New York, Nick stayed with their captain David Brooks and his family. Since then, he’s been sharing an apartment with Marc. It’s a low-effort roommate situation, as they come--they keep the same hours, follow the same diet, and Nick is usually happy to cede the TV when Marc wants it and study game tape on an ipad in his room. Lately he’s had the place to himself a lot, though.

Nick stumbles through the dark living room and sinks heavily onto his bed. He gets as far as kicking his shoes, socks, and jeans off before deciding he’s done being upright today and crawling between the sheets. It’s … well. Not quiet, it’s Manhattan, but it’s dark and still with no one shuffling around in the other room, no voices coming through the floor at this hour. Nick has gotten used to the city noise outside the apartment, but if he’s honest with himself, he’s never gotten used to being alone inside it.

He thinks about company, and his helpful imagination supplies the image of Kolya leaning over him in bed. Nick’s pulse quickens. He may not understand being attracted to strangers, but he’s known Kolya for years, played through almost six seasons of hockey with him. He’s seen Kolya dance through opposing defenders with steely-eyed determination, light up talking to young fans. He’s noticed Kolya’s narrow, muscular frame, his strong hands, his dark eyes and the sharp mind behind them. And when he’s tired, and drunk, and lonely, Nick imagines Kolya’s weight on top of him, Kolya’s hands parting his thighs, Kolya’s lips pressed to Nick’s. If he closes his eyes and lets his mind drift just right, he’s sure he can taste that kiss.

Nick pushes his hand into his underwear and tries to forget where Kolya actually is right now.

 

The next morning, he makes coffee and checks the time in Minnesota before starting a video call with Isabelle. She catches him up in a sentence.

“They don’t want me to go.”

“What?!”

“I mean they didn’t say that, but Mom was making that face, you know, the I-don’t-know-about-that-honey face--”

“Yeah.”

“--and she kept talking about how dangerous it is in the big city, and how expensive, and like …” Isabelle groans and leans on her elbows, digging her fingers through her hair. “They don’t _understand_ , Nicks. I have to do this.”

“I know.” Nick’s forehead scrunches. “I get it.”

Isabelle looks up, and the camera angle makes it weird but he thinks she’s looking at his eyes on her screen.

“You do, don’t you.” She frowns. “Did they do this to you? When you got drafted?”

Nick shakes his head. “They knew I’d be going somewhere, didn’t have much choice about where.”

Isabelle grunts. “Plus you’re a guy.”

“That too, probably.” Nick wasn’t gonna say it, but he’s not gonna deny it, either.

“God, that’s so unfair.”

“I mean, kind of. Hockey players don’t really get mugged.”

Isabelle rolls her eyes. “Don’t you start.”

Nick exhales through his nose. The truth is, he’s worried about her too. He just also knows what it’s like to want something more than anything else in the world, to be certain you’re good enough and willing to work as hard as it takes. Nick doesn’t understand a damn thing about opera, but he recognizes the fire in Isabelle's eyes when she talks about it, the hours she pours into studying and practicing. It’s kept them closer than they are to their other sisters, having that passion in common, even though their subjects are so far apart.

“Okay,” Nick says. “I’ll work on them. Don’t push too hard right now, give them time to get used to the idea. And … Izzy.”

“Yeah?”

“… Don’t let them make it about money, okay? I got that.”

Isabelle blinks.

“Are … Nick, are you sure? I mean, there’s scholarships and stuff, and--”

“Yeah, I know, but …” Nick shakes his head. Isabelle knows he worked his ass off to compete in high school, but she doesn’t know why he had to, the way their uncle dangled gear and supplies over his head to make him perform. “I don’t want you to have to worry about it. I can do this for you. I want to.”

Isabelle just looks at him for a minute.

“Thank you,” she says finally.

Nick really wishes he could hug her through the screen. Well, if they pull this off he can hug her in New York. For now he settles for a smile and a shrug. “Hey, what’s the point of making NHL money if I can’t use it to take care of my baby sister?” He glances at the clock. “I gotta get to practice, I’ll try to call Mom and Dad tomorrow. Stay good, okay?”

Isabelle presses her hands to her chin and flutters her eyelashes. “Always.”

Nick snorts. “Uh-huh. Love you.”

“Love you too. Bye.”

 

Nick has dinner with Marc that night, comparing notes on a shooting drill over takeout. He loves being able to pick his goalie’s brain about what got into the net and why, but there’s only so long they can rehash the same shots, and as the conversation drifts Nick ends up recounting his call with Isabelle. He explains the problem with their parents.

“That’s rough,” Marc observes. “So what’s it gonna take?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Nick leans back in his chair and stares into the distance. “I can play down the crime thing, but I’m not gonna lie about it, New York City’s not exactly Duluth. Finding a place in a good neighborhood might help, or--I don’t even know, do they have dorms at Juilliard? But then they’ll just worry about parties …”

“What if she lived with you?”

Nick refocuses his eyes on Marc. “What, you mean here? I don’t know … Don’t get me wrong, I trust you, but my parents don’t know you.”

“No, I mean.” Marc glances away. “Holly and I have been talking. About maybe moving in together.”

Nick lets his chair fall forward with a thunk. “Oh!” He blinks a couple of times. “Shit, man. That’s … that’s a thing.”

“Yeah.” Marc grins and scratches the back of his head. He looks uncomfortable being this earnest, and Nick would feel bad for him if he didn’t still remember what it was like finding the shaving cream Marc snuck into his skates a few years back. A little gravity won’t kill him.

“Huh. That’s not a bad idea, though.” Nick likes living with Marc, but he misses his sisters fiercely, more than he’d ever admit--except to Kolya, once, years ago. And it would certainly make a good case to their parents to have him watching over Isabelle, seeing her get home safe at night. They get along well when they’re both back home, he’s pretty sure they can stand living together. The more he thinks about it, the more he thinks Marc’s suggestion is actually really good.

Nick’s parents, as it turns out, agree.

It takes more than just the living arrangement: a GPA minimum, an agreement about how often she’ll call and visit, and a solemn promise to keep the media out of their household as much as a professional athlete’s life allows. There’s an unspoken second promise buried underneath that last one, and while Nick doesn’t love it, at least it will be easy to keep.

He can’t come out while Isabelle is living with him. There’s never been an openly gay player in the NHL, and if word got out, all the sports and queer press combined would want to know every detail of his private life. His parents know that, and know about him, and don’t want Izzy having to deal with that while she’s in college.

Lucky for her, Nick thinks ruefully, his stupid alien libido means he’s never gonna _have_ a private life.

 

The Rangers get close enough that year for the loss to be heartbreaking--game six of the Eastern Conference Final, in overtime, just two wins short of being able to play for the Stanley Cup. Nick spends a week in his room poring over tape and cataloguing missed opportunities before Marc drags him out and gets him drunk enough to cuss out the New Jersey Devils and laugh about it.

The next day, Nick starts apartment hunting. It takes longer than he hopes, even working with an agent that his teammate Valya recommended. Marc makes fun of him for being picky, and Nick knows he’ll make it worse if he admits he just wants Izzy to have the best. But he settles eventually on somewhere big enough to be comfortable for both of them, secure enough to satisfy their parents, and if it doesn’t have quite as good a view as the one he had to pass up, well, that’s a concession he can make. The last time he leaves the old apartment with Marc, he hugs him. Marc insults him in French, tells him he’ll see him at practice, and hugs him back.

Nick meets Isabelle at the airport in late July and spins her around as if she weren’t almost his height. Isabelle whoops a laugh and drags him to the baggage claim for suitcases full of clothes, books, and music. They spend a whirlwind month shopping. Nick brought basic furniture from the old place, but they have so much more space now, and this one feels permanent, worth investing in. They set up a gym and a practice room, pick up some nice cookware. Nick can cook a little, but Isabelle enjoys it more, and she promises to coax the family meatball recipe out of their mom if Nick will do the dishes. He agrees in a heartbeat.

Eventually, the Rangers reconvene from where they’ve dispersed over the summer, and the preseason kicks into gear. It’s good to have everybody back on the ice together, Nick thinks, along with a new crop of rookies to encourage and correct and watch fall for the same stupid shit that Marc and Timmo pull every season.

It’s also good to see Kolya again, who reveals he stayed in town that summer finding a home for his parents to move into from Chelyabinsk. They were househunting at the same time, Nick realizes, and they indulge in commiserating about real estate in New York. Kolya congratulates him on his success, and Nick bites back the urge to invite him over. He knows by now where the line is. They had a nice moment. He won’t ruin it by getting shot down.

 

Nick learns his new commute and settles into a routine. Most days he and Isabelle meet up for dinner after practice and school, except when he’s on the road and she’s left to her own devices. One afternoon in October, his phone buzzes while he’s undressing before practice.

Isabelle’s texts always sound breathless: **Afternoon lecture canceled did you skate this morning or just about to**

 **I’m about to, sorry,** Nick replies.

 **Can I come watch I haven’t been to a practice in New York yet** Isabelle asks, faster than it seems possible to type that on a phone.

Nick smiles. **Don’t you have homework?**

 **I’ll bring it I promise I just want to get out of the house,** Isabelle sends, and Nick doesn’t have the heart to say no.

It’s a routine practice, apart from the absence of Kolya, who’s sidelined with a sprained knee. It would be driving Nick crazy, having to stay out of skates for something so minor, but Kolya seems content to ice it and sit on the bench with a book. Nick honestly forgets that Isabelle is coming until he recognizes her laugh and turns to find her next to Kolya. She points at him and yells to Nick,

“I thought you told me hockey players had no manners!”

“Yeah, well, that’s Kolya,” Nick shouts back with a shrug. Of course Isabelle would beeline unknowingly for his favorite person in the building--and of course Kolya would immediately impress her. Nick’s heart glows, and he shoots them a grin before going back to work.

After practice he gets invited to a last-minute meeting, the sort of thing that’s optional unless you’re trying to look good for leadership, and Nick always is. He shoots off an apology text to Izzy and emerges from the training center an hour later to catch a cab back home. He kicks off his shoes in the entryway, hangs up his coat like always, and then notices voices in the kitchen.

“--stupidly tall, come on, let me see the sauce.”

Well, that’s definitely Isabelle.

“Not my fault you so short. Go away.”

And that’s … wait, what?

Nick turns the corner to find Isabelle standing on her tiptoes, craning her neck to see the stove over Kolya’s shoulder. Kolya has a spoon in his hand and a playful smile on his face--he looks more comfortable than Nick’s seen him in ages, since the rookie year they spent joined at the hip. He seems perfectly at home, and Nick is overwhelmed by the desire to bottle and keep this moment, this domestic scene that manages to be both trivial and earth-shaking.

“You get sauce on me again,” Kolya is saying to Isabelle, “you owe me new shirt.”

Nick clears his throat. Isabelle and Kolya both look up.

She launches into a story about asking Kolya to help with her pronunciation for school, but they’re making dinner first and now he’s not letting her see it. “Use your awesome assistant captain hockey powers to boss him, or something, he’s huge.”

“I don’t actually have awesome hockey powers, Iz.” Nick answers absently. He’s still staring at Kolya, who turns back to his stirring. Nick blinks. “And what do you mean, help you with your pronunciation? You’re taking French.”

“But I’m also in the chorus and we’re doing _Eugene Onegin_ , remember? And Kolya’s reading it too for class, and--”

\--and in one conversation Isabelle has accomplished what Nick hasn’t been able to do in five years, reaching across Kolya’s courteous distance and bringing him into the most intimately banal part of their life. He looks so at ease with a dish towel tucked into his waistband, tasting the sauce and adding something from a shaker. Nick didn’t even know Kolya could cook. He tries and fails not to find it heartbreakingly endearing.

The three of them sit down to eat together. Isabelle peppers Kolya with questions about school, and Nick listens with interest as Kolya describes what he’s been reading in his Russian Lit class. He confesses to cheating a bit by reading _Eugene Onegin_ in the original, but between the NHL season and his parents’ move, Nick is amazed he’s even finding the time to do that.

Then Kolya and Isabelle get down to work on her Russian. Nick can’t resist diving in and taking a stab at some of the basic words she’s trying to pronounce; Kolya laughs at both of them, but not unkindly, and Nick could say things wrong all night if it means Kolya keeps smiling at him like that. Eventually Kolya excuses himself, and when Nick says something self-effacing about having kept him too long, he gets quiet again.

He comes back, though, a handful of times over the semester. He and Isabelle cook, and Nick sits at the counter and stays out of their way unless someone passes him something to peel or chop. Kolya and Isabelle banter about college, and Nick and Kolya discuss their practices or games, which Isabelle attends as often as her schedule allows. They both get better at Russian, although Isabelle picks it up faster, which would bug Nick on principle if it weren’t for the way Kolya’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s amused.

It takes a few weeks for Nick to notice how much Isabelle and Kolya are talking between those dinners. He’ll hear her laugh at her phone and sound something out in Russian before typing a reply, or Kolya will make a joke in the locker room that Isabelle also made at home the day before. The warmth he was feeling at re-forging that connection cools a bit each time it happens--as much as he enjoys the visits, he can’t forget that Kolya is coming over to see Isabelle. Nick is only there because he lives with her.

 

An afternoon in early November finds Nick huddled on the couch reviewing tape of the Minnesota Wild. It’s still a couple weeks before the team visits Madison Square Garden, but they have some new acquisitions and he's still studying how they play. At least, that’s the excuse he would give to anyone but Isabelle, who knows that their uncle Jordan will be traveling with the Wild as an assistant coach. This game is important to Nick, more important than the points, and when he restarts the same clip for the third time Isabelle groans.

“Nicks, come on,” she says from the kitchen behind him. “You’ve gotten all you’re gonna get out of that.”

Nick just grunts. He hears her phone buzz on the counter and tries to focus on a failed shot attempt and the ensuing turnover.

Isabelle's phone buzzes again. “Hey,” she says, “Can I go over to Kolya's?”

Nick blinks. “What?”

“He says it's okay as long as you say it's okay, but he wants you to text him first. And then you can watch the same stupid shot over and over and I can get my homework done.”

Nick picks up his phone as Isabelle goes back to her room and starts collecting books. **You’re sure it’s not too much trouble?** he sends to Kolya. **I can leave the apartment, let her study in peace.**

 **stay there,** comes the reply. And then, a second later: **we have study party you be sad hockey player alone ))))**

Nick stares at his phone as Isabelle bustles around getting her coat on. After the door closes behind her, he throws it against the far side of the couch.

 

The Rangers get crushed by the Wild.

Nick sees every mistake, knows where he should have been when he wasn't, how he could have deflected that puck. It's just a regular season game, and an early one at that, but it might as well be a loss in the finals for how badly it gets to him. When Nick stomps back to the dressing room he's a powder keg on skates, and everyone who sees his face gives him a wide berth.

He showers and changes quickly, then sits and pokes at his phone, trying to cool off at least a little before he has to talk to anyone outside the team. He scrolls through Instagram, not really seeing what he’s looking at, until he does a double take at a photo of Isabelle with her classmate Amy. They’re smiling and holding up glass bottles labeled in Cyrillic, beside a caption that reads, **We <3 you Kolya ))))))**

Nick’s heart pounds as he reads the comments, trying to figure out if their parents have seen this yet. If they think Nick’s letting his teammates get Isabelle drunk … he hopes they wouldn’t send her home in the middle of a semester, but the thought of living in their giant apartment by himself ties his stomach in knots. One of the comments describes the drinks as kvass, and Nick skims Google results before standing up and looking around.

Kolya’s on his way out the door. Nick grabs his arm.

“What,” he says, and holds up his phone.

A smile flickers across Kolya’s face as he recognizes the photo, then disappears when he notices Nick’s expression. “Nick,” he says. “What’s problem?”

“Do you just give booze to all the underage girls you know?” Nick demands. “You could be arrested for that shit.”

“Nick, you have wrong idea.” Kolya tilts his head. “Is kvass, not alcohol.”

“It’s a lightly fermented beer, I looked it up,” Nick snaps. “You can’t just get my little sister drunk, you asshole.”

“Can’t get drunk on kvass.” The corner of Kolya’s mouth twitches. “Even babies not get drunk on kvass, Nick.”

Kolya’s cracking jokes about this? He must see the warning in Nick’s face, because the smile drops and he tries again, voice softer. “Not--not hurt her, Nick, never.”

Even his defensiveness makes Nick’s hackles rise. “What, but you’ll give her booze?” He’s single-minded, flushed with rage. “Fuck you, Kolya, I’ve seen you pick up.”

“Whoa, man.” Lars chimes in from somewhere behind him, and Nick fumes at the presumption. “Nick, whoa, back the fuck down.”

Kolya is staring at him like they’re speaking different languages, like he doesn’t know exactly what Nick means. “I--what?” He stumbles over the English a little, like he did when they were younger. “I’m not understand, Nick.”

Nick snarls. “I’ve seen you pick up. You like them underage and so drunk they can’t stand, you dick.”

Kolya’s eyes go wide.

Nick tries to lunge, but feels hands clamping down on his biceps. The murmuring around them erupts into shouts, and Nick shakes off the restraint and spins around to find Marc staring him down.

“ _Crisse de toton_ what the _fuck_ is wrong with you,” Marc spits.

“Why don’t you mind your fucking business?” Nick bites back.

And then he’s staggering backwards, pain radiating from the center of his face. Nick finds his balance and just stands there, blinking. Someone else grabs him but Nick shrugs them off and shakes his head. He’s done.

It’s not the pain. He’s taken much worse hits than that before. But he’s never seen Marc throw a punch before--against anyone, on or off the ice. Barbs from opponents that would have Nick dropping the gloves in a second roll off Marc’s back every night. Nick has never understood how he does it. But it’s starting to sink in just how badly he had to mess up to be the exception.

Nick doesn’t even wince when the trainers tape his nose up. He says the appropriate things to convince Brooks and Coach Sims that it won’t happen again, that there’s no beef between him and Marc. When he’s finally walking out, he checks his phone again to find a text from Valya.

**have you heard from Kolya?**

He wasn’t exactly expecting to, but maybe Valya knows something he doesn’t. **No. Why?**

By the time he gets home, there’s still no answer, just a cold feeling in his gut that doesn’t go away when he steps into his warm apartment. Isabelle’s on her laptop in front of the TV with the post-game analysis muted. She glances over her shoulder when he comes in and does a double take.

“Holy shit, when did you--”

“Locker room. Don’t want to talk about it.” Nick closes his bedroom door behind him.

There’s still no answer from Valya, so he bites the bullet and tries texting Kolya himself. **Hey. I’m sorry. Can we talk?**

If this works, he thinks, he’ll kick himself for not trying it five years ago.

Nick paces until he hears Isabelle go into her room. He gets something to eat, washes the dishes, and goes to bed. His phone remains silent.

 

Nick wakes up with a headache, and gasps when he rubs his eyes before remembering. He’s sitting up in bed, waiting for the pain to ebb, when he hears Isabelle outside his door.

“Nick, are you up?”

He swallows, deciding whether to answer.

“I’m going to check on Kolya,” she continues without waiting, and her voice is flat. She knows, then, and she’s pissed at him too.

… She knows something that’s making her worried about Kolya.

Nick rolls out of bed and drags pants on, but not fast enough--he hears her leaving before he opens his door. He hovers in the doorway until the headache reminds him to start a pot of coffee, then slumps onto a stool at the counter.

Kolya didn’t even look angry, is what’s killing him. He looked surprised, and confused, and … and scared. He looked like he thought Nick was going to hit him, except that Kolya can take a hit, he wouldn’t have flinched from that. What did he think Nick was going to _do_ to him?

If anyone else had put that look on Kolya’s face, Nick would be making them pay for it right now.

He drops his forehead into his hands. Things were finally going _well_ between them. Even if it was really Isabelle that Kolya liked being around, at least Nick got to see him happy. He knows he’s never going to get more than that, so it should--it should have been--

Nick lets out a ragged breath and realizes he’s crying.

Okay, so it wasn’t enough. It would never have been enough. It was still all he was going to get and he’s ruined it, ruined everything. Kolya’s scared and hurt and something happened to make Valya and Isabelle worry about him, and Nick doesn’t know what’s going on but he knows it’s his fault and fuck, he can’t even blow his fucking nose right now. Nick’s shoulders shake, and he wipes pointlessly at his eyes a few times before dragging himself into the shower and letting the tears, snot, and a faint trickle of blood wash away together.

When he’s dried off and put clean clothes on, he doesn’t really feel better, just too drained to beat himself up any more. He pours himself a cup of coffee and hunches on the couch while it cools.

Nick almost drops his coffee when the front door slams.

“Nicholas Jordan Larsson, you’re lucky that man was--” Isabelle rounds the corner from the entryway, sees his face, and stops. Nick hasn’t looked in a mirror yet, but he can imagine: nose swollen, bruises everywhere, and eyes rimmed with red.

“He was what?” Nick asks, staring at her.

Isabelle sets her mouth in a line and exhales. She drops her bag on the kitchen counter and walks over to sit on the other side of the couch.

“Iz. How is he.” Nick can hear the quaver in his voice, chooses not to care. He doesn’t have it in him to put on a brave face right now; if there’s one person in the world it’s safe to let down his guard in front of, it’s Isabelle.

Isabelle studies him with an expression somewhere between anger and … suspicion? Like she’s wondering something about him, but Nick has no idea what.

“Not great,” she admits, and Nick squeezes his eyes shut.

“He made some bad choices last night,” Isabelle goes on, “but he’ll be fine. Nick, what the fuck were you thinking? He’s my friend, and I thought he was your friend.”

Nick leans back into the corner of the couch and folds his arms together. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “I did too.”

Isabelle crosses her own arms and gazes at him levelly. Compared to his throbbing nose and aching head, she seems impossibly poised, upright and stern and unflinching.

“What changed?”

“I don’t _know_ ,” Nick wails, and Isabelle blinks. Five years of frustration and confusion fall out of Nick's mouth before he can think. “We were so close! My first year in New York … Kolya always used to stay with me in bars, when the rest of the team was off--” Nick gestures vaguely. “You know. He took care of me, got me home when I was too drunk to see straight. He made me _breakfast_ , Iz. I really thought …” Nick trails off, because it doesn’t matter what he thought. It was five years ago and he was wrong.

“Then he stopped,” he says in a smaller voice. “He didn’t say anything, we didn’t fight, he just … stopped. It was like none of it ever happened. I don’t even know what I did wrong.” Nick lets his head fall back against the couch, screwing his eyes shut and wincing at the pressure on his taped-up nose. “At least this time I know why he hates me.”

Isabelle sighs. “He doesn’t hate you, Nick.”

“You didn’t see his face last night.”

“No,” Isabelle allows, “but I talked to him twenty minutes ago.”

Nick opens one eye. “About me?”

“About a lot of things.” She’s still giving him that odd look, and it’s starting to make him nervous. “Nick …” she begins, and okay, now he’s really nervous.

“Yeah?”

“Are you in love with him?”

“What?” Nick’s heart clenches as he sits up. “No! I just--”

\--but it’s Isabelle. She’s known him her whole life, hugged him when he came out to his family, even met his one boyfriend, what seems like a lifetime ago. She’s--oh, fuck--she’s the only person in the world who’s seen him both with Andrew and with Kolya. Fuck, fuck, fuck.

“Oh, Nicks,” she says, and he might as well have confessed.

“Izzy …” Nick twists to face her. He can see the gears turning in her head and he doesn’t like that at all. “Izzy, you can’t say anything. Not to Kolya, not to anyone.”

Isabelle frowns.

“I’m serious, Iz.” Nick shoots her a desperate look. “I’ve already fucked things up so bad, the last thing I need is for him to think I just blew up at him because I wanted to get into his pants.”

“Did you?”

… Oh, _fuck_.

Nick’s whole body deflates as he exhales. Isabelle finally takes pity and slides over to put her arm around him.

“I’m such an idiot,” Nick groans into her shoulder.

“Yeah,” Isabelle agrees, because she’s still his little sister. “You are. But you’re my favorite idiot.”

“Only because Kolya’s not one,” Nick mutters, and if he sounds a little bitter, well, it’s been a rough couple of weeks.

Isabelle snorts. “I don’t know about that.” She curls up against his side and flips the TV on before he can ask what she means, and he lets her pin him there for half an episode of Great British Bake Off before squirming away to review game tape. At least there’s one thing he’s still good at.

 

After practice the next day, he's not even sure about that any more.

Nick and Kolya rarely play on the same line, so he could almost imagine them getting away with it--the way they never quite look straight at each other, sit on opposite sides of the room in meetings. Once they get on the ice, it's obvious how ridiculous that is. A team isn't three players, or even five; they all need to work with each other. Nick and Kolya are too slow on changes, they stumble on basic drills. Nick catches Kolya glancing at him once or twice, but he turns away immediately, and his expression … it’s like Kolya _knows_ , and just looking at Nick makes him sick.

They can’t go on like this. Nick’s a fighter, he knows when he’s beaten, and he lost this one long before Marc broke his nose. He doesn’t have much pride left to swallow, but he gets it down and showers in a rush, determined to corner Kolya and apologize. Nick tries not to read anything into how subdued the chatter in the locker room is. He hovers after he gets dressed, head down, until Kolya gets out of the shower, then steps into his way and opens his mouth.

Kolya shoulders past him without stopping or saying a word.

Nick stands frozen for what feels like minutes, remembering how to breathe. When he turns around, Kolya’s dressed and gone.

The next few days blur together. His nose is healing as fast as it ever does; it's not a bad break, as they go. Practice doesn't get better. Nick feels stiff and distracted on the ice, trying not to think about Kolya while looking right at him, which goes about as well as you'd think. At home he studies stats and tape, as if knowing numbers and strategy can make up for not being able to play the damn game, until Brooks finally pulls him aside one afternoon on their way out of the practice rink.

“Listen. What happened is between you and Kolya, but I can’t let it keep affecting the team. Get it straightened out.”

Nick really doesn’t need to be told that. “How?” he snaps. “He won’t even talk to me.”

“He’ll talk to you.” Brooks’s tone is unwavering. “Just … do whatever you have to, okay?”

As if Nick wouldn’t do just about anything to make things right with Kolya again, even to go back to being politely ignored. But Brooks doesn’t need to know that, so Nick just nods, and Brooks claps his shoulder on his way out.

Nick goes home and sits on the edge of his bed, staring at his phone. The last text message he got from Kolya, mocking him for being sad and alone, really isn’t helping. He closes his eyes and tries to think of anything to say that doesn’t just make him sound like more of an asshole.

His phone buzzes. Nick opens his eyes. Kolya has sent him an address.

 **come talk,** he adds. **we suck at hockey right now, need to fix this.**

 **You sure?** Nick replies. **I’m really sorry, I fucked up**

 **come talk,** Kolya repeats, and Nick is already pulling his coat back on as he confirms. Twelve minutes later he’s standing on Kolya’s doorstep trying to convince himself that his hurry to get over here is the only reason his heart is pounding.

When Kolya opens the door, it’s the first time they’ve been face to face in days. It feels like a deep stretch, painful with how much Nick needed it. He searches Kolya’s face, usually so expressive, but can’t make any sense of it right now. Nick realizes he’s staring and stammers an apology.

He gives Kolya the bottle of vodka that he’d remembered to snag on his way out the door, half host gift and half peace offering. Kolya accepts it without smiling. They make a halfhearted attempt at small talk before trailing off, and Nick lets his gaze drop to the floor.

“Look,” he says, “Can I--I want to try to explain. Can we, like, sit down or something?”

Kolya gestures at his kitchen table. “Sit. Talk.”

So Nick does.

He tells him almost everything. Too much, maybe. He tells him about Jordan, and Shattuck, and how hard he had to struggle to be allowed to play. He tells him about Isabelle and opera, the deal they made so she could come to New York. He tells him everything he can, up to panicking about Isabelle’s Instagram post--everything except the most important thing.

“So you were angry,” Kolya prompts after a moment. “Fine, be angry, yell about parents, we fight, we get over it.”

Nick sags. “Yeah, I--I get pretty fucked up when we lose to Wild, and--”

Kolya doesn’t even let him finish. “No. You’re not going to blame this on losing,” He stares at Nick, unflinching. “You were a mean fucker, Nick. You said nasty shit to me, shit I maybe never forgive you, even if I understand. No excuses, no bullshit, okay? Why you say those things?”

“Because you like her better,” Nick blurts, and then freezes, pivots desperately. “I mean, you two are always texting, and talking about college, and I just--” he forces a shrug. “I guess I was jealous.”

“So you think, oh, I know, I be better friends, I call teammate child molester.” Kolya’s voice is so soft, so even, and Nick’s heart stops.

“What?” he gasps. “God, no, Kolya--”

Kolya stares past Nick’s shoulder. “It is what you said. You said I like them ‘underage and so drunk they can’t stand.’”

Nick feels the blood drain from his face. “Oh my god.” That--this whole time he had thought-- “Oh my god, Kolya, I’m sorry. I meant--I meant under twenty-one, I didn’t--” Nick has been tearing himself up with guilt, as awful as he’s ever felt in his life, and it was so much worse than he knew. He desperately wants to touch Kolya, to reassure him, to tuck himself against Kolya’s side where he always used to feel so safe. He actually goes so far as to reach across the table, but Kolya pulls away sharply and Nick crumbles.

“Fuck.” Nick drops his face into his hands. “Fuck, Kolya, I--I’m such a fuckup, I’m so sorry, I--you’d never--Jesus Christ, I’m an asshole.” Nick is dimly aware of his breathing getting short and tries halfheartedly to focus, but it’s hard to slow it down when he would just as soon sob. How does he keep making things worse with the one person he only wants to be close to?

Kolya is silent as Nick gradually gets ahold of himself.

“Okay,” he says finally. “I believe you.”

That … it’s what Nick needed, but somehow it doesn’t help at all. He peers out at Kolya from between his hands.

God, he still looks so sad.

“Now what?” Nick asks.

“If we’re American,” Kolya shrugs. “I don’t know. If we’re Russian?” He waves towards the bottle on the counter. “We drink vodka, stop talking about feelings.”

This is the easiest choice Nick has had to make all year. “Russian,” he says. “Let’s be Russian, I’ve fucked up enough being American this week.”

There shouldn’t be anything remarkable about drinking with Kolya. They do this all the time, go out with the team after winning games. It’s not until they’ve staggered to the couch and Nick has slumped against Kolya’s shoulder that he realizes how dangerous a trap he’s fallen into. Kolya is warm beside him, and he smells the same as he used to, and when Nick sprawls lengthwise across the couch Kolya’s chest is so comfortable beside his cheek. This spot feels made for him. It feels like home. But Nick knows he can’t let himself have this any more, not after … after whatever happened between them, that other time. He frowns as he drags himself back to a sitting position, unable to let go of that thought now that he’s had it.

“We used to do this all the time,” Nick says slowly. “Why did we stop doing this?” He turns to peer into Kolya’s face and sways a little more than he intends to. Their noses brush, and Nick’s breath catches. He makes himself keep talking, anything to keep himself from tilting forward the last few inches keeping them apart. “You used to hang out with me, and let me sit with you when the guys were picking up, and I could make you laugh, and then you just--you just stopped. You were so nice, and then you stopped liking me.”

Kolya stares at him. “You really don’t know?” He sounds shocked, and Nick’s heart sinks. Whatever it was, he should have known already, he should have apologized. Nick tries to think of anything he could have done to Kolya, anything he might have drunkenly admitted back when he used to lean against Kolya in bar booths.

“Is it because I’m--” Nick blinks. He doesn’t know how to end that sentence, doesn’t even know if there’s a word for what he is. He tries again. “I mean, you don’t pick up like Lars or Timmo, I didn’t think I was, like, getting in the way by just sitting there.”

“Because you what?” Kolya is still so close to him, it’s cruel that he hasn’t pulled away.

“You--” Nick actually feels Kolya’s breath on his lips and with his last scraps of willpower turns aside, settling back on the couch facing forward again. He scoops up one of Kolya’s hands just for something to focus on, anything but risk looking back at his face. “You can’t tell anyone, okay?”

Kolya nods, and Nick traces idle patterns on Kolya’s palm as he tries to explain the thing that seems to be wired differently in his head from everyone else’s, that makes total knockout strangers uninteresting but apparently still lets Nick fall head over heels for people he gets to know.

“And I only really spend time with hockey players,” Nick finishes, and if that's a little closer to the point than he meant to get, well, he's pretty drunk and he used up the last of his willpower a few minutes ago. It's more of a relief than he expected to say any of this out loud, to have Kolya sit beside him and listen like he used to. Nick's heart feels a little lighter; his head is lighter still.

“No time to meet girls?” Kolya asks, and Nick actually giggles.

“You're funny,” he says. “I don't like girls.”

Oops.

Nick lets his mouth run as he waits anxiously for a reaction. He backpedals over his wording, talking about the women he loves: his sisters, his mom. He hopes the distraction will work a second time, but brilliant, blunt, unfailingly Russian Kolya just furrows his brow and asks,

“Are you coming out to me?”

Even if Nick were any good at lying to anyone, he doesn’t think he could lie to Kolya about this.

“Yep,” he says. “I’m a gay hockey player who really only likes other hockey players, and they’re all straight.” As he leans against Kolya’s side, the cold reality of that aches more than usual. He sighs. “I’m going to die alone. But at least Izzy will be happy singing opera.”

Nick listens to Kolya breathe for a moment through the ear pressed against his shoulder. His pulse sounds strange; it’s quick and unsteady.

“Not all hockey players straight,” Kolya points out, which is sweet, really, but doesn’t help.

“Maybe on other teams.” Nick might be sulking a little, but he feels like he’s earned it.

“Nick … you can’t tell anyone. What I tell you--could ruin my life, never go back to Russia.”

Nick looks up. He realizes he’s still holding Kolya’s hand, and now he’s afraid to let go.

“Part of why I’m so angry, so hurt,” Kolya says, “is because in Russia, in Chelyabinsk, they say gay men, they are child molesters. So when you say that, I think you know.”

Nick’s heart drops into his stomach. Oh god, he thought this was going so well.

“I think you know I’m gay.”

Nick’s drunk mind splits in half.

“You’re--but you--” He stares up at Kolya, blinking slowly. “You mean you’re bi?”

Kolya laughs bitterly. “No. No girls. Never liked girls.”

“But--” Nick squirms around to face Kolya again, eyes wide. “But girls in clubs, I’ve seen you leave with them!”

Kolya shrugs. “Some girls go out alone, get too drunk, get sick, get scared. I send them home, tip taxi drivers to get them safe indoors.”

Nick reels as Kolya explains the misdirection. Walk out with a woman, tuck her into a cab, and no one inside has to know you didn’t go home with her. It’s a good excuse to help out the ones who are too young to be there, or too wasted to be safe. It’s how he avoids getting chirped for not picking up like Nick does, even though he’s also … Kolya’s gay. He’s been gay the whole time Nick has been longing for him, back when he still let Nick drape himself all over him in bars. Nick wants to pull Kolya’s face to his and kiss him, wants to hit him for how well the damn trick worked. He settles for throwing his arms around Kolya’s neck, leaning over him to tuck his forehead into the crease of Kolya’s neck and shoulder.

“You devious fucker,” he groans. “That just makes me feel worse. God, Kolya, I’m such a dick, and I--”

He exhales in a rush. Kolya gasps.

Nick goes tense, waiting for Kolya to pull away … but he doesn’t, and the pulse in his neck is hammering. Nick is suddenly very aware of being half in Kolya’s lap, pressed up against his chest with his lips just below Kolya’s throat. He has to know what Kolya tastes like, he can’t imagine existing in a universe where he doesn’t find out.

Nick swipes his tongue along Kolya’s collarbone.

Kolya moans, and Nick is half-hard before he’s fully registered what just happened. When he does, his heart starts to pound.

Nick licks Kolya’s chest again.

Kolya arches towards him.

“You want this.” Nick’s voice is full of wonder as he props himself back up at Kolya’s eye level. “You want me?”

“You don’t remember?” Kolya looks as stunned as Nick feels. “Five years ago, after we win in D.C.?”

Nick frowns. D.C.? Five years ago? Their rookie year, when they were in the playoffs … he tries to remember the game, the rink, the …

“The bar with tall tables? And Big Lars got us shots, and …” Nick takes a breath. “You stopped taking care of me after that,” he realizes, and rifles desperately through his memory. “Flavored vodka really fucks me up, I don’t remember.”

“I kissed you.” Kolya swallows. “You said--you weren’t--not interested.” He gestures between them. “You not want.”

He … what? And Nick _what_? Five years ago … he had known, then, hadn’t he?

“But you--I mean, you practically stopped talking to me, Kolya!” Nick feels like he understands even less than he did an hour ago. Which, okay, he’s had a lot to drink since then, but also … Kolya kissed him? Kolya kissed him, and then stopped speaking to him, stopped keeping him company in bars and getting him home afterwards. Nick doesn’t understand why he stopped instead of kissing him again.

“Too hard,” Kolya says. His accent is getting thicker as the evening goes on. “Too hard see sleepy, happy Nick, put to bed, not climb in with, not kiss again. So I stop.” Kolya looks down. “You not want,” he says. “I think you straight, you not want me.”

Nick stares. Kolya is still talking, but Nick’s mind is stuck trying to wrap itself around this new information, this linchpin pulled out of his understanding of the world.

“Wait,” Nick says. “You kissed me _five years ago_?” Kolya is gay, he kissed Nick, he moaned when Nick licked his chest, and … Nick swings a leg across Kolya’s thighs, props his arms on Kolya’s shoulders, and starts to lean forward. Kolya grabs his hips to stop him and Nick tenses. “Do you--” he bites his lip. “Do you not want this anymore?”

Kolya groans and drags Nick down into his lap. “I want,” he breathes, and kisses him.

It’s perfect. It’s hot and wet and just soft enough and exactly like Nick imagined it--exactly, he realizes, like he remembered it, deep in his mind, after the rest of that night washed away. Kolya pulls away just enough to whisper,

“I’m wanting so long, Nick. You want now also?”

Nick melts into him, pressing his mouth back on Kolya’s. He’s aching with want just from being spread open in Kolya’s lap, and Kolya--Nick squirms--god, yes, Kolya’s hard underneath him, and it’s criminal that they both still have pants on. Nick desperately presses forward, rubbing himself against Kolya’s tense abdomen, and he actually groans out loud at how good it feels.

Kolya digs his fingers into Nick’s hips and a whine slips from Nick’s throat. He’s going to need a lot more of that, of Kolya grabbing him and putting him where he wants him. He doesn’t want to be anywhere except where Kolya wants him.

“Nick,” Kolya gasps. “ _Pizdets_ , _blyad_ , Nick, wait.”

Nick freezes. He remembers with a pang how experienced the other guys his age are, the ones who go out and pick up after every game. Even if Kolya’s not one of them, he’s older than Nick and--god, since he moved to New York, he’s probably been able to hook up as much as he wants, he’s discreet enough. Nick can’t fuck this up, is terrified that he’ll embarrass himself and lose Kolya now, when he’s gotten so close. “Am I--” He gulps. “Am I doing it wrong?”

Kolya pulls him into another kiss. He runs his fingers through Nick’s hair and Nick’s face warms with comfort and affection. “Not wrong,” Kolya mumbles. He kisses the side of Nick’s mouth, the tip of his nose. “Not wrong, so good, fuck, Nick.”

Nick barely hears him, trying to follow his mouth, to catch it and put it to better use than talking. He succeeds, finally, and kisses Kolya slower this time, experimenting, feeling the way he responds to different touches. Nick needs this, his head is spinning with how much he needs this. He’d be falling if it weren’t for Kolya’s strong hands on his hips, god, tightening as he shifts his weight, as he leans into Kolya, as he scrambles for something to hold on to while the world dissolves around them.

“Nick,” Kolya gasps, and it’s as faint as if he’s halfway across the rink. His fingers tighten in Nick’s hair and Nick can’t stop his hips from thrusting forward, fuck, he can’t think about anything right now except how much he wants Kolya to drag him onto the floor and fuck him until he can’t remember his name.

“Nick,” Kolya pleads. “You are very drunk.”

It takes Nick a few seconds to process those sounds into words that mean anything. He opens his eyes.

The world is intact, and just as it should be: he’s in Kolya’s little apartment, straddling Kolya’s lap, and the room is still spinning but that’s only a little bit love, it’s mostly vodka. Kolya’s hands are firm on Nick’s hip and in his hair; his chest is heaving and his eyes are dark with desire, but he’s holding Nick steady at arm’s length, grounding him, keeping him safe. Like always.

Nick takes a deep breath, then starts to giggle.

“How are you even real,” he gasps as he slumps across Kolya’s chest. “Oh my god, Kolya.”

Kolya frowns at him and somehow that’s even funnier, Kolya making faces in a world so good that Kolya wants Nick. He slides off Kolya’s lap onto the floor, contorting with laughter.

“What?” Kolya says. He doesn’t get it and that’s wonderful too, that he doesn't even know that he's perfect. “I am real, Nick.”

“I know--” Nick tries. “I just--you’re--” It’s no good. He starts giggling again, and doesn’t stop until he forces himself to exhale slowly, to count out his breaths. “Okay,” he acknowledges, “yeah. You’re right. I’m so wasted.” He looks up from the floor, and his face softens when he sees Kolya watching him with concern. “Can I stay here?” Nick asks. “I don’t want--” His nerve falters, and he looks away. “I don’t want you to change your mind.”

“How are _you_ real,” Kolya says, but it’s playful. It feels familiar, the way they used to tease each other when they huddled together at the back of the booth their rookie year. “Love you for years, Nick, not change mind overnight.”

Nick can’t possibly have heard that right.

He stares up at Kolya, but Kolya says nothing, makes no correction, just stares back with a furrowed brow. Did he just … that …

… that’s a conversation they need to have sober.

“Okay,” Nick announces. “But you’re totally making me breakfast, I’m still not going anywhere.” He reaches out an expectant arm, which sways with the effort of holding it upright. “Come on. You have to pour me into bed and climb in with me, you don’t fit on the sofa.”

Kolya grins and hauls him to his feet.

The end of the night goes soft around the edges. Nick remembers staggering into the bedroom; he’s aware of Kolya’s hands around him, calloused and gentle as they help him out of his shirt, and then Kolya’s chest tucked close against his back. He wants to savor that warmth, the texture of Kolya’s skin … but by the time he forms that thought he’s falling asleep.

 

Nick wakes up before the alarm goes off, stirred by the unfamiliar pattern of traffic noise. It took him a long time to get used to sleeping in Manhattan, and every time he’s moved has been an adjustment. The light is different too, and the pillow, and Nick blinks his eyes open wide as he remembers where he is.

Kolya’s still out, sprawled on his back with the covers shoved down to his waist. It’s nothing Nick hasn’t seen before, obviously, they've been sharing a dressing room for six years, but he’s never gotten to _look_ at him like this before--his eyes trace the outlines of muscles from Kolya’s chest down to his abdomen, the angle of his hips, the bulge of morning wood under the sheets. He looks too good not to touch, and Nick drapes himself over Kolya's side and nestles his face into the crook of his shoulder, pressing light kisses against his neck.

Nick feels Kolya’s chest rise deeply, his limbs flex and shift.

“Mm,” Nick says. “Morning, sleepyhead.” He stretches up to kiss the corner of Kolya’s mouth. Kolya gazes down at him through half-lidded eyes, then his face softens into a smile and Nick's heart skips a beat. Kolya … he meant it. What he said last night. That was real.

Kolya wraps his arms around Nick and kisses him. It's tender and sweet and not nearly enough for how much Nick is suddenly craving contact. Nick hums into Kolya’s mouth and kisses back, fast and sloppy, presses himself against Kolya’s side and lets his hardon bump into Kolya’s hip. Kolya cards his fingers through Nick’s hair and looks at him with too-sharp focus for this early in the morning, mouth slightly open, somewhere between pensive and amazed. God, Kolya _would_ be pensive, Nick thinks, he had to fall for the hockey player who’s an intellectual, which, okay, is actually really hot in general, but right now--

“Less thinking,” Nick says. “More fucking.”

Kolya laughs, until Nick rolls on top of him and straddles his lap and Kolya’s head drops back with a gasp. A thrill of arousal twists through Nick at seeing Kolya’s impeccable self-control falter, his hands clutch at Nick’s thighs driven only by instinct and desire. Nick grabs Kolya’s shoulders and grinds down against him. He wants to be so much closer.

“Lube,” he urges. “God, Kolya, I want you in me so bad.”

Kolya’s eyes widen. Nick can feel Kolya’s cock twitch and, fuck, he wants that inside him. Kolya hasn’t moved. Nick shakes his shoulders.

“Lube, condom, get with the program.”

Kolya blinks and reaches for a drawer in his nightstand, and not for the first time Nick appreciates the length of his wiry arms. Nick grabs the lube as soon as it’s within reach, drips some onto his fingertips and reaches back to press one inside himself. Kolya grabs his hips with both hands and Nick groans, sinking impatiently onto his fingers. His cheeks flush with the awareness of Kolya watching him open-mouthed as he gets himself ready.

“Okay,” Nick says finally, “okay, let’s go, god, Kolya, do I have to do all the work around here?”

He grabs the condom from Kolya’s open hand with a grin, unwrapping and rolling it onto him with eager fingers. Wrapping his hand around Kolya’s dick to slick him up makes Nick wish he’d stopped to go down on him first, but there will be time for that. If Nick has a say in it, this isn’t even the last time they’re going to have sex _today_.

Nick lifts himself up onto his knees and then stops. He looks down at Kolya, who’s still watching him, eyes wide, and still silent.

“This okay?” Nick murmurs.

Kolya nods.

Nick leans down to kiss him, just to be sure. Kolya’s tongue slips eagerly into his mouth, and his back arches up towards Nick. Kolya wants this as much as Nick does, and suddenly Nick can’t wait another second. He sits up and drops himself down onto Kolya’s cock, as far as he can stand all at once.

Kolya swears under his breath and grabs for Nick as he eases himself down, bracing himself on his knees, gasping and blushing as he gradually opens up. It’s so much, and so good, and when Nick has settled with Kolya deep inside him he pulls up again, rocking slowly until he’s comfortable enough for his impatience to take over.

“Okay,” he gasps. “Oh, god, Kolya.”

Kolya pushes up into him, carefully at first, then faster as Nick moves with him. Somewhere along the way Kolya finds his voice again. He blends Nick’s name with Russian curses and wordless nothings, and Nick would be fascinated if he weren’t so busy being turned on. He pants as Kolya digs his fingers into the sheets, grabs for Nick, clutches his own hair. Watching Kolya lose his mind with desire makes Nick feel simultaneously powerful and completely undone.

“Oh, oh, Nick, Nick, Nick,” Kolya gasps, and Nick feels him trembling and grinds down, locking eyes with Kolya as he bucks into Nick and shouts. Nick grabs his dick and it only takes two fast strokes before he’s coming too, all over Kolya’s belly and chest.

Nick drapes himself over Kolya as they both catch their breath. He gets up to toss the condom after Kolya softens, and smiles when Kolya makes a dissatisfied noise and stretches a hand out after him. Kolya pulls Nick firmly into his arms as soon as he’s back within reach, and they curl up together with Nick’s forehead tucked against Kolya’s lips.

Nick still wants so much. He wants to kiss Kolya more. He wants to figure out exactly what happened in D.C. now that he's sober enough to understand it. He wants to ask Kolya to come over after practice today and do that to him again. He wants to tell him that he loves him.

Kolya snores softly, and Nick smiles. They waited five years for this; he can wait a little longer. He closes his eyes, listening to Kolya breathe, and is close to falling asleep again when the alarm goes off.

 

Practice that day is a revelation. Nick flies on the ice, tracks the puck ahead of surprise bounces and moving skates, puts himself exactly where his teammates need him. He sends one up to Kolya who tips it past Marc’s blocker like it’s on rails, and Nick can’t resist crowing with triumph. He throws his arm around Kolya just to see his face light up, to feel the heat from the back of his neck as he punches the air. They circle back to see Marc shaking his head and smiling, and Nick pauses, lets friction slow him down as Kolya skates away.

When they’re done for the day, Nick takes his time getting his gear off and heads for the showers last. It’s not that he’s worried about being distracted by Kolya--god knows he’s had time to get used to that--but he’s not sure exactly how rough they were that morning, and Nick bruises easily. The thought of finding Kolya’s handprints on him makes his cheeks hot, but it doesn’t matter how he much he likes it; he’s really not ready to answer the questions that would raise.

Only Timmo and Marc are still in the locker room when Nick gets out. They chat in French until Timmo takes off, and Nick finishes tying his street shoes before looking over at Marc.

“Hey.”

“Enh?” Marc is engrossed by something on his phone.

Nick takes a breath. “I’m sorry.”

Marc looks up.

“I was a dick,” Nick says. “The other day.”

Marc opens his mouth, closes it, and then grins. “Yeah. You were,” he agrees, and then scratches the back of his head. “But I’m glad it worked out. Sorry for breaking your nose.”

“S’okay. I needed it.”

“That’s the spirit.” Marc hauls himself to his feet and Nick follows suit. “You needed a nose job, looks better this way.”

“Fuck you,” Nick laughs.

Marc thumps him on the shoulder as he heads out the door. “Don’t fuck it up again, _hein_?”

He’s gone before Nick can think of a retort. Nick stops to shoot a text to Kolya before pulling his coat on, and it’s not until he’s halfway out of the building that it occurs to him Marc might not have meant his nose. But by then Kolya has texted him back, and Nick is hurrying to catch a cab to meet him, butterflies gathering in his stomach.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first time I've tried writing a different character's perspective in specific scenes that were already written by someone else, and it's a weird challenge that turned out to be really fun. I recommend it!


End file.
